


CoffeeshopStuck

by Broba



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, kinkmeme - Fandom
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Multi, Stabdads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broba/pseuds/Broba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This simply had to happen, based on the kinkmeme prompt. I know this is probably an existing setting but I hope I can do justice to it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_If you go down Velvets Row and turn through Timpani Alley, well bucko you're applyin' for a dyin'. Yeah, you're goin' to get stabbed the fuck up all nice and proper. But, if you keep your end up and pull the lead out of your pants you can make it to the underpass, and from there it's just a hop and a skip through the old junk yard, and if you ain't quick you're goin' to get your ass bit by the meanest most vicious buck-toothed snaggle-pawed blind-eyed son of a mongrel bitch you ever saw leap over a dead hobo to come chargin' into you like a meat grinder on a leash. That dog is called Ole Blind Billy, and let me tell ya, whatever he don't eat he fucks, so you better hope he's hungrier then he's horny if he catches you up._  
  
 _But, if you make it out the other end of the yard, then you're on Three Ups, and that'll take you past the the old porno cinema they put up back inna fifties- I swear to this day they still call it an “art house” but trust me ya don't want to go in if you're a fan of art. So you duck past the stream of swarthy moustache guys always hangin' round, and then you'll head past the old cannery. They make some kinda canned stew or shit there. Ain't too bad if all you got is a buck and a saucepan to see you through the weekend, but there's a reason you don't see no dogs round there, dig?_  
  
 _So you head on down and skip under the big red bridge, and past that church where they only start singin' when it's a full moon and the posters ain't in English, and if you keep on going through the lights and over the junction, you'll get to Cue Street. Keep to the left, don't catch the eye of anyone who looks like they want to sell you anything, stay the fuck away from Vietnam Stan- you'll know him if you see him- and after about ten minutes you'll come up to the hippest joint in town. I'm talkin' the solid groove, Jack. Real shady, nice and tight. They got everything you need, so long as all you need is a solid jive playin' on the old wind-up cowboy and all the steaming hot tar you can force down your squeal-hole. I'm talking coffee, Jackson. The blackest, harshest, slide-down-sweetest, burn-your-teethest coffee you ever had. Those cats will mix you up a china cup of black destiny, take your money, wait for you to see the devil. Don't ask what they put in it because you ain't going to get any answer except a knife in the trachea, that's just the kind of place it is. Sure, the floor sucks at your shoes, the walls sweat regularly and whatever they clean the tables with will dissolve man-made fabrics, but you ain't going to find a better cup of joe anywhere else. If you're really serious about living deliberately, then you drink at the Midnight Brew._

  
  
The place was a shambles from the outside, the sign looked like it had been crudely painted over whatever had been there before, and the place was quite obviously some kind of deli that had been taken over and turned into a coffee shop with varying degrees of success. Behind the great glass fronted counter-top where there would once have been a selection of meats and sandwiches there were now stacks of various cups and mugs. Many were odd colours or patterned, most were basic blank white and looked like they had been bought piss-cheap as a job lot. The wallpaper was crumbling and faded, with a suggestion of some kind of playing card based patterning here and there. The tables were pure Bakelite, the booth seats were lined with naugahyde that was faded and worn. By all appearances it had to be a terrible place, but that's why people came to the Midnight Brew. It was all part of the experience.  
  
Behind the counter was the massive steel contrivance that produced the famed coffee itself, that was being tended to by the hulking form of Hearts Boxcars, who ran his hands over the various hissing valves and baffling protuberances with loving care while his boy watched on. Also by the counter, Diamonds Droog leant casually against the wall near the till that he was supposed to be minding. He was reading a  newspaper and smoking an endless stream of narrow cigarettes, his long face drawn and lined by a permanent scowl of vague disapproval.  
  
Boxcars grunted and shook his head.  
“I dunno, it's not quite right yet.”  
“So fix it,” Droog remarked unconcernedly.  
“Woah there, chief, you're talking about a lady here. Got to treat her right if you want her to treat you right.”  
Droog looked up, “You needa get out more.”  
Boxcars just chuckled as he rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick, corded forearms bristling with hair. “Don't listen to him kid, you got to treat your dames right, see?”  
Beside him, Tavros nodded solemnly, “yeah, that's right dad, uh, the dames, you have to treat them correctly.”  
“Okay, pass me the number three Gripley.”  
Tavros leant down to where an oily toolbox was resting beside his wheelchair and selected some incomprehensible Italian tool, passing it over to his father who fitted it with care to a valve.  
“Now then, let's see what's got her all in a tizz.”  
Droog was having none of this, and rattled his newspaper irritably, “you got to be kiddin' me.”  
Boxcars chuckled and winked at his son, “Droog got no romance in his soul. That's why I make da coffee. Ya got to know how to put alla your heart an' soul into it.”  
“Yeah dad. But, uh, I think it's broken?”  
“Oh! Hey kid, you don't gotta be broken hearted, you needs ta remember the thing about dames- there's always anodda one round da corner!”  
“No, uh, I know about the corner dames dad, I mean the machine is broken, I think.”  
“Yeah, uh-huh, we got a blockage. Nothin' we can't fix with a little love an' carin' attention,” Boxcars raised his hand and beat the recalcitrant valve with his number three Gripley savagely three times, and was rewarded with a great rumbling hiss of steam as the machine came to life once more.  
“Oh! Success over here! Would ya look at that!” Boxcars straightened up and beamed.  
“You're a regular miracle worker over here,” Droog commented.  
“Boom. We got coffee. We're in business.”  
“You're the best, dad,” Tavros nodded grimly.  
“Ain't it the truth? From the mouths of babes.” Boxcars ruffled Tavros' wild mohawked coxcomb of hair, making his boy giggle uncontrollably.  
  
Droog rolled his eyes, and casually leaned over to slap his palm noisily on the swinging door that led to the back kitchen.  
“Yo! We got's action over here. Time ta open for business, let's go!”  
The door swung open to reveal Aradia, scowling at her father.  
“I heard you, father, don't yell.”  
“Yeah whaddever. Get the sign out and shit, we got to make some money over here.”  
“Boxcars finally fixed up the machine?”  
“What am I, talkin' to myself over here? We're open, boom, move.”  
“Okay.”  
  
Droog shook his head and got back to reading his paper as Aradia drifted past. She had a way of moving that made her seem to be almost floating. As she negotiated her way past Tavros, he tried to smile up at her and wave, but it didn't seem that she especially noticed. From where he was working on the machine, Boxcars gave his son an affectionate look and shook his head before getting back to work. Aradia unlocked the front door and awkwardly manoeuvred the large, A-frame sign out onto the street. It was black, with vividly white chalked writing on it. The sign simply said:  
  


 **~THE MIDNIGHT BREW~**  
  
DON'T BE A MORAL COWARD  
IT WILL MAKE A MAN OF YOU  
DRINK A CUP OF TROUBLES  
SPEND ALL YOUR MONEY AT THE MIDNIGHT BREW  
  


There were already people waiting. When the Midnight Brew opened for business- which could be a wildly variable time- there were always people waiting. Most of the customers were dark, dingy sorts who needed something to take the edge off. Night people who needed something to give them more to worry about then their jobs, or bridge people who had scrounged up a buck or two and needed a little warmth in their bones. As soon as Aradia heaved the sign onto the street they were trying to get in. Stern face, determined stances, people who knew what they needed and knew that this was the place to get it. In short, determined and absolutely committed coffee drinkers.  
  
This time, however, the first in line was an obvious first-timer. He had the hipster-glasses, the scarf, the artful flash of purple dye in his hair. He was exactly the sort of person who felt like the Midnight Brew was the kind of hip joint that a cat like them deserved to be seen in. Probably the sort of person who had their own blog, whatever that is.  
  
Droog slowly folded up his newspaper and set it down on the counter-top. Eridan, for it was he, rapped a knuckle on the counter for attention, and made a show of looking over the large menu board nailed to the wall, assessing the offerings and weighing up what he wanted.  
“Uw-well, how's the coffee tonight?” He asked, unwisely.  
Droog looked at him, and stared straight through his soul effortlessly.  
“It's wet,” he said flatly, “and hot, and inna fuckin' cup.”  
“Yeah, yeah,” Eridan was not really listening, he stroked his chin and stared at the menu, “I think I'll have a _grande_ Old Biblical, no syrup.”  
Droog had, already, had quite enough of this bullshit. The Old Biblical was, of course, one of the more potent offerings available at the Midnight Brew and it was not expected that a newcomer would make such an order- certainly not on their first night. There were standards, after all. Protocols. Especially at the Midnight Brew.  
“Oh!” He shouted, “mister all-that over here! He wants an Old Biblical!”  
“Oh!” Boxcars turned slowly, “what is dis, are you fuckin' with me over here?”  
“Check it, Jackson, this guy. This guy! He's askin' for an Old Biblical.”  
“Forgeddaboutit!”  
“For real, look at the balls on this guy!”  
“Those gotta be some balls!”  
“Some pretty big balls!”  
Eridan was starting to look nervous.  
“Look guys,” he smiled, “I just uw-want a coffee-”  
“Oh!”  
“Ohhh!”  
“Look at dis!” Droog gestured at the customer, who was by now trying to shrink down to a one-dimensional point in space, “come in here, just wants a coffee!”  
“The balls on dis guy!”  
“Big balls! Christ, look at the balls on this guy!”  
“These balls!”  
“Oh!”  
Eridan shrank down a little, realising that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake for which he was about to be punished most terribly.  
  
Suddenly, the ritual of abusing the newcomer was interrupted as Clubs Deuce staggered into the shop, waving his cane irritably and spreading disgruntled customers left and right.  
“Guys!” He shouted, “big trouble!”  
Droog and Boxcars immediately adopted stances of anguished dismay at this news, addressing each other with stern stances and much chest-slapping.  
“Oh!”  
“Oh!”  
“Guys!” Deuce jumped up and down, rapping the counter-top with his cane, “Have you even looked out the window over here?”  
“Oh!”  
“GUYS!”  
  
They realised that Deuce was serious. Boxcars frowned and made his way out from behind the counter, there was a flip-up section to allow this, and he had to push Eridan carelessly aside to get by. The three of them, Deuce, Boxcars and Droog stood at the high, wide window to the place, looking out in silence for a moment.  
“Well,” said Boxcars.  
“Oh man,” Droog groaned, “Slick is not gonna like this.”  
“Are you kiddin' with me over here?” Deuce hopped up and down, waving his cane, “Slick is goin' to lose his shit!”  
“Jeez,” Droog shook his head, “Jeez Lousie.”  
“Ah, shit.” Boxcars groaned, “who's gonna tell him?”  
  
It was directly across the street, so close that it practically overlooked the Midnight Brew. And it had sprung up practically overnight. They had noticed a new business opening up, sure, but there had been no indication exactly what it was. Suddenly, the sign had gone up and it was open for business. Right there, staring them in the face. Mocking them, even.  
  
The shop was classy, that was for sure. The wide, curving, bay window was glazed with old-fashioned tiny panes of square glass, interspersed with the occasional roundel. The place had a warm, yellow glow- inviting, welcoming even. It was a place that wanted its' customers to be pleased that they had walked in. It promised to be a charming, welcoming and well-mannered host to the patrons. It was, in short, everything that the Midnight Brew was not. Across the street, with a tasteful sign picked out in wide brass sculpted letters mounted on a wooden board, there now was:  
  
 **~ENGLISH TEA ROOM~**


	2. Chapter 2

The basement of the Midnight Brew was in chaos, as the guys descended and began making the appropriate conversions to turn it into a small but serviceable lair. The large trestle table was cleared and covered in stacks of photographs, pens, rulers and a pile of blueprint paper. The rather cheery lampshade was pulled town to leave a stark, exposed bulb. Boxes of coffee beans were haphazardly shoved into the corner. The little room had been Aradia's personal haunt, besides being the unofficial quartermaster for the shop she liked to have a place where she could be alone. She was not happy about being told her basement was being turned into a gang hideout.  
  
“This is ridiculous,” she stated flatly, “you aren't a gang. You run a coffee shop.”  
“I ain't got time for this,” Droog sighed, “look, just get with the program here, kid. We need the room, so scram.”  
Araida raised an eyebrow quizzically, which was the closest she tended to get to screaming in rage with her father, “is this a mid-life crisis thing? Are you going to all buy motorcycles next and go round in leather jackets with 'the midnight wolverines' on the back or something?”  
Clubs Deuce pushed past her as he went down the little stone corridor leading from the kitchen staircase to the basement, carrying armfuls of old newspaper, “hey, nice idea! I like that one!”  
Droog gave him a half-hearted kick to hurry him on his way, “no, no this isn't- look I don't have time for this shit. This is our place, we need the room, so it's tough shit. Just deal with it.”  
“I will deal with it,” Aradia said darkly, “and when the time comes, you will know who has been doing the dealing. This is not over.” She retreated along the corridor slowly, staring directly into Droog's eyes and repeating “not... over....”  
  
Droog stepped into the new gang lair and shivered.  
“Jeez, that kid can be creepy sometimes.”  
Boxcars looked up from where he was setting up the folding chairs and chuckled, “yeah, wonder where she gets that from?”  
“Oh! You wanna come here and say that, tough guy?”  
“Sure, lemme just ask your lil' girl if it's okay to punch you out first,”  
That tore it. Droog advanced on Boxcars ready to lay down a beating. Boxcars flipped up the chair he was holding and made to swipe Droog across the chops with it. Deuce realised what was going down and started to get excitable, brandishing his cane and hopping from foot to foot.  
  
By the time Spades Slick arrived at his newly convened gang lair, a three-way brawl had already erupted. It was just like old times. He stood in the doorway, just glaring with his good eye, while his gang made violence happen. He brushed a hand over his whiskery chin and, not for the first time, wondered whether teaming up with these mooks was such a good idea.  
“Hey! Whattafuck are youse guys doin?” He began flicking the light on and off as he berated them, “this here is a goddamn hideout, what the fuck is all this? Calm down! Calm down you assholes or so help me I'm gettin' the hose!”  
No one wanted to get the hose again. The gang gradually settled down before Slick had to start beating anyone with a stick, and chairs were rearranged around the long table. Before long, the reformed and somewhat rumpled-looking Midnight Crew were once again settled down in a grim subterranean lair, ready to make diabolical plans and plot the downfall of their enemies. Slick sat at the head of the table with his black fedora pulled low. Without needing to spell it out to the others, they had all arrived wearing the same get-up of midnight-black suits and hats. The single bulb cast deep, start shadows over all of their faces, making them menacing silhouettes.  
  
“Well lookat this,” Slick sneered, “just like old times, eh?”  
“Heh, ya know, I missed this,” Boxcars rumbled, “been too long since we was a gang, ya know?”  
“Yeah!” Deuce was still a bit juiced-up from the earlier excitement, and he was bouncing on his seat, “why'd we ever even stop?”  
“I'll tell ya why!” Slick pounded a fist on the table, “to run the best goddamn coffee shop in this whole stinkin' town! We own the coffee biz, it's our turf! And now, some asshole thinks he can open up right across the street from us? Like, what, we ain't goin' to do somethin' about that shit?”  
  
There were various rumbles and grunts from around the table. It was strange, now that they had the hats again, and the lair, and the kids had been shooed off to bed, it was like the last ten or fifteen years hadn't even happened. They were a gang again, the old Midnight Crew, ready to kick some ass and fuck over anyone who got in their way. It was an infectious atmosphere and even the laconic Droog was starting to get into it.  
“Yeah that's all well an' good,” he drawled, “but what is we gonna do anyways?”  
It was Deuce who stepped up to answer that one, with an unexpectedly blood-curdling snarl. “Muuuuurder!”  
The others stared for a moment. The shortest member of the crew was still bouncing excitably.  
“Uh, right,” Slick blinked, “well first we need a plan!”  
“Yeah,” agreed Droog.  
“Right!” Boxcars clapped his meaty hands together.  
“Oh man, I been waiting for this!” Deuce looked ready to explode with glee.  
  
A large sheet of blueprint paper was unrolled, and Slick produced a protractor and set of compasses.  
“Okay, so here's the street-”  
He began to draw, carefully.  
  
In the attic space above the shop itself, another kind of meeting was taking place of a surprisingly similar nature. The wide, large space was dominated by a single bulb that illuminated the gabled roof-beams that formed sharply sloping walls. In places the tilework of the roof had come away to reveal little gaps and slits to the outside world, with the largest of them crudely covered over with plywood and whatever else had come to hand. The floorboards were rough and dusty, and in the middle of the attic a pile of blankets and old pillows had been stacked and arranged into a crude nest to make a meeting-spot under the lamp. In days past this had been a large storage area for the shop below before the crew had taken over and to that end a traditional goods elevator run by a hand-winch was installed in one end, which had come in handy to get Tavros up there.  
  
Aradia sat cross-legged under the bulb, glaring balefully at the others. Tavros had wheeled his chair over and was sitting attentively, and offered her a warm smile which she ignored. Sollux was sprawled across two pillows boredly, and beside him Karkat was sat bolt-upright. Of all of them Karkat looked as though he had the least patience for being called up there.  
“Welcome,” said Aradia, “thank you for attending this emergency meeting.”  
“Oh sure,” Tavros replied softly, “I mean, I was happy to come, except for the part where I had to be winched up that dusty old elevator, that was, uh, not good, but it's okay,”  
“Hush Tavros,”  
“Sorry,”  
“Urrgh, what is this even all about?” Karkat growled sullenly, “it's not like I didn't have anything better to be doing you know. I have so much shit to be doing right now.”  
“Thimple, she'th jutht pithed at being kicked out of the bathement,” that was Sollux.  
“I'm not pissed!” Aradia yelled, and immediately coughed discreetly behind her hand and smoothed down her dress, resuming her demure demeanour. “I'm not upset. But our dads are going to rue the day.”  
“Oh you should have said from the start,” said Karkat sarcastically, “I'm always up for a bit of rue.”  
“Well you should be! Your dad is the worst of them, he's got them all running around in those stupid hats acting like they are gangsters or something.”  
“Yeah, I did think that was kind of weird, definitely some unresolved shit going on there. I need to ask him about that,” Karkat scratched his nose and shrugged.  
“Uhm,” Tavros raised a hand, “isn't it kind of nice though? That they have something to do, that's nice?”  
Aradia snapped at him, “there's nothing nice about meeting up for stupid plans in a stupid lair with your stupid friends!”  
They took a moment to look at each other and appreciate the irony.  
“Uh, tho, now we're all here,” Sollux cleared his throat, “what eckthactly are you propothing?”  
  
A dagger slammed into the middle of the table, impaling the sheet of blueprint and quivering in place gently as Slick let go.  
“It's agreed then!”  
“Yeah!”  
“Right!”  
“Fuck yeah,”  
“And no more stupid fucking arguments about it, right?”  
“Yeah!”  
“Okay!”  
“Gotcha!”  
Slick drew a large X on the sheet, on one side of a set of parallel lines he had set down earlier.  
“THIS is the north side of the street.”  
“Got it.”  
“Right.”  
“Okay.”  
This had taken the best part of an hour, but they were now ready to finish drawing their battle plans. Slick drew a box, and drew a stylised cartoon cup with a couple of wavy lines indicating steam.  
“This is that fucking fruity tea shop.”  
“Why don't you just write 'tea shop' then?”  
“Because, Deuce, I'm the one doing the fucking map and I don't have time to write a fucking novel every two seconds. Okay? OKAY.”  
“Yeah but, you took longer drawing that little-”  
“OKAY?”  
“Okay.”  
Slick proceeded to draw another box opposite the first, and on this one he drew a stylised cartoon mug with a couple of wavy lines indicating steam.  
“And THIS is the badass fucking coffee shop, right?”  
“Hang on, that looks just the same.”  
“Wha- fuck, no, look, that's a tea cup, that's a coffee mug, right?”  
“Yeah but it's the same thing.”  
Boxcars chipped in at this point, “which one is us again?”  
“This one is us! That one is them! Look!”  
“Uh, okay,”  
“You got that?”  
“Yeah.”  
“You sure you got that? Boxcars?”  
“Yeah.”  
“BOXCARS?”  
“Uh. I don't... I don't think I got it,”  
“FUCK. Look. See, I'm writing it, look, tea... shop... fuck you guys, seriously fuck you so fucking hard sometimes, THERE.”  
“Okay.”  
“Right,”  
“No problem.”  
  
Slick cracked his knuckles and sighed. Making plans, having a lair, it really was just like the old days again.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The target lay ahead, looming mockingly in the early morning mist. Spades Slick drew his trenchcoat in tight and pulled up the collar against the cold. The English Teashop was open for business, bright and early, when all decent and honest purveyors of fine hot beverages were still sleeping off the previous night. It made him sick to his stomach to see this kind of behaviour right there in his face like that. The windows were bright and freshly cleaned, the sign was burnished to a golden sheen. He wanted to burn the whole place down right then and there, but these things took planning. He raised a wrist and hissed into his watch.  
“Testing testing....”  
Nothing. He shook his wrist and tried again.  
“Testing! Say something you fucks!”  
There was a tinny retort from the earpiece he was wearing and Deuce's voice came through.  
“You got to use the codenames! C'mon boss, it was your idea!”  
“Urrgh, we're not even started yet!”  
“Bo-o-o-oss!”  
Slick gritted his teeth and steadily brought his temper under control.  
“King Foebra to Poison Penguin-”  
“Go ahead King Foebra! Over!”  
“We're not doing the 'over' thing asshole, it never works. It only leads to bullshit misunderstandings.”  
“Right you are, boss!”  
“Everyone shout up, I'm in position!”  
From down the street, where he was sitting casually on a bench hiding a pair of binoculars behind a newspaper, Diamonds Droog muttered into his own watch.  
“Bengal Dieger here, I can see ya.”  
Across the street, and pretending to look over the posted timetable of a bus-stop, Hearts Boxcars chipped in.  
“Ripperpotamus here, gotcha boss!”  
“Okay. Time to begin the mission. I'm gonna check these assholes out so cover me! King Foebra, out!”  
  
Spades Slick slid his was across the street with a jaunty casual strut and barged his way into the English Teashop, barging through the door violently. He almost collided with the first customer of the day who had only come into the place for a harmless cup of chai latte and maybe a nice ciabatta with rocket for breakfast.  
“Hey! Uw-watch it!”  
Spades spat his cigarette out directly into the cup of chai the kid was holding and gave him a ferocious glare.  
“Try me kid. There's a one-way train down to Chinatown and I'll punch your ticket right here and now.”  
“I- uh- I kinda-”  
“I'm a holiday in Cambodia and you're on the tourist trail mother fucker, bring your camera!”  
“I don't ewen know what half-a those uw-words-”  
“Oh you wanna go? Let's knife this shit up right here, you're a turkey on thanksgiving lil' man, and I'm fifty homeless kids.”  
The kid looked up slowly, and met the baleful Cyclopean glare of Slick. He swallowed heavily and adjusted his scarf, lisped something about needing to be somewhere in a hurry and scuttled away. Slick slid across the floor stealthily, looking around him. The hidden camera nestled in his specially modified fedora was clicking merrily above his head.  
  
The place was pristine- the tables were topped with Italian marble, the floors were artfully chequered in carefully muted coloured tiles to enhance without overwhelming the ambience. The plaster mouldings in the corners were tasteful yet redolent of Rococo luxury. There were plants. Actual, live, living plants. It was sickening. He felt so disgusted he had to light up another cigarette right then and there. At the far end of the tearoom was a dainty little bar area covered in delectable little cakes and pastries, the kind of thing that was inviting and delightful and all that jazz. There was no one there, and Slick turned slowly while his hat took in more of the evidence. He decided then and there that these bastards were going down.  
“King Foebra here,” he snarled into his watch, “we're gonna fuck this shit up. We're gonna fuck it so far up Ripperpotamus will be able to walk under it in a top-hat an' not even fuckin' duck.”  
“Yo, this is Bengal Dieger, some hipster-douche just ran outta the place like his ass was on fire and he about to shit gasoline.”  
Slick smirked, “yeah well that's only the beginning. We're gonna show this town what happens when you drink at the-”  
  
“Welcome to the English Tearoom!” A voice came from behind him, a voice like an angel, a voice like all the angels held a contest and kicked out the best sounding bitch because they were jealous of that shit. Slick swivelled slowly, his good eye opening wide in surprise, his cigarette dangling.  
“Oh,” he said, “whatnow?”  
“I said welcome! How are you doing today?”  
  
She was amazing. She had skin that made the marble look dull, she had dark eyes like God took a stick of charcoal and drew them on the world's first snowfall. And that smile- it was so tender, so giving, so open. Here was a dame who knew how to look after someone. And not in the sex way, but really look after them. Make a man want to get up in the morning just to go on looking at them.  
“Oh,” Slick stammered, “uh, who is it that I have the pleasure of asking the pleasure of knowing? I mean, uh, hello,”  
She ducked her head for a moment and her ash-blonde hair shimmered, where it snuck out in the occasional ringlet from under a delightful pastel-coloured shawl.  
“Hello there! I'm Ms Paint, how can I help you?”  
“Slick. I mean, that's me- my name-”  
“FUCK SHIT UP!” Boxcars roared, right in his ear, “YEAH!”  
“We're gonna go to town, boys, yeah!”  
“Who was that?”  
“Oh shit sorry, uh, Poison Penguin to Ripperpotamus- yeah!”  
“YEAH!”  
“Hey will youse guys shut the fuck up? I can't hear what's goin' on,”  
“That you, Bengal Dieger?”  
“Yeah, Bengal Dieger to asshole one and asshole two, how about you keep it down assholes?”  
“Oh!”  
“Oh, you hearin' this over here? ”  
“Yo Poison Penguin, this guy, where's all these balls comin' from?”  
“Poison Penguin to Ripperpotamus, I can not be-LIEVE these balls!”  
Slick nearly bit his tongue in half, “shut up about your goddamn balls!”  
“Excuse me?” Ms Paint raised her hands to her mouth and Slick was terrified for a moment that he might have offended her, his angel, his pristine goddess.  
“I didn't- not your balls!”  
“Um, pardon me sir?”  
“I mean- oh! This place! Wow, this place over here, look at all this, it's beautiful! I was just remarkin' on how I love... your... goddamn... walls? This is some nice, uh, paintwork over here.”  
“Well, thank you! We only just opened up, it's taken a lot of work making the shop look nice.”  
Slick clamped a hand down over his watch, tightly, grasping himself in a weird death grip.  
“Oh, I believe it! I mean, jeez, this is some lovely shit you got goin' on here with the... plants and... shit.”  
“YO KING FOEBRA YOU'RE ALL QUIET OVER HERE.”  
“Are... are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”  
“I am just,” Slick had begun to sweat, “so... so good.”  
“HEY!” Roared Boxcars, “should we go in there, I don't hear nothin',”  
“Who's this?”  
“Boxcars- who's THIS?”  
“Poison Penguin ya mook, you're supposed to use the code names!”  
“Oh shit, I mean, Ripperpotamus here! I'm gonna grab this garbage can and heave it through da window, what ya think?”  
“Yo Poison Penguin to Ripperpotamus, that sounds right ta me. Do it! Do it!”  
“Bengal Dieger to Ripperpotamus- yeah make some violence happen.”  
  
Slick was nearly in a panic, by the time he heard the tell-tale metallic crunch of a garbage can being bodily heaved into the air in readiness for violent spontaneous interior redecoration,  
“Excuse me for a moment,” he smiled nervously, “I gots ta just... check on the time over here,”  
“Oh... of-of course...”  
  
Slick swivelled and huddled into a corner, shout-whispering into his watch manically.  
“King Foebra to Ripperpotamus, you drop that shit right now!”  
“Uh, what?”  
“Ixnay! Ixnay! Change of plan, abort abort abort!”  
“Yo King Foebra, this is Bengal Dieger-”  
“What the serious fuck Droog, this better be important!”  
“Yeah, thought you might like ta know, your kid just walked across the street and is about to walk right in there.”  
“Shit! Uh, scatter! Everyone!”  
  
Slick stiffened as he was tapped on the shoulder, and turned on the spot awkwardly, fiddling with his watch.  
“Um, are you sure you are quite all right? You look a little peaky!” Ms Paint was close enough that he could smell her perfume, the scent of bottled perfection itself.  
“Oh yeah, yeah, I just-”  
“Were you talking to your watch?”  
Slick rapidly weighed up the options available to him.  
“Yes. Yes I was.”  
“Might I ask why?”  
“Because,” said Slick slowly, licking his lips, “that's just the way I deal with... watches...”  
They stared at each other for a moment, Slick tried to smile amiably and realised that he had entirely forgotten how to. Amazingly, she actually laughed a little.  
“You really are a curious one, Mister Slick, would you like a cup of tea? I should say you look like you need one, please be my guest?”  
“I would,” Slick swallowed thickly, “love to.”  
  
The door jangled open, as Karkat strode boldly into the tea shop.  
“I do NOT know this child!” Slick lied, compulsively.  
“Hello, father,” said Karkat witheringly.  
“Are you this young man's father?” Ms Paint asked politely.  
“Oh! I am, I mean, of course I am. I just don't... know him... you know? It's so hard raisin' a kid these days, it's so hard. An' no one unnerstands.”  
“Ah, I see! And what is your name, young man?”  
“Karkat,” said Karkat suspiciously, looking up at his father as though he expected the man to sprout  wings and fly off out the chimney at any moment. Slick ruffled Karkat's hair roughly and laughed far too forcedly.  
“That's m'boy! Pride o' my life, apple o' my juice. I love the little shit. Ha! Ha! Ha!”  
“I see!” Ms Paint smiled sweetly down at Karkat, who just scowled.  
Slick leaned over to mutter, “I'm a single parent, no dame, tragic story. I do what I can for the little guy, try an' raise him up right, it ain't easy bein' a guy all on my own,”  
“Oh my, I'm sorry to hear that!” She bent over to offer Karkat a handshake, “and I'm very pleased to meet you!”  
Karkat gave her an appraising look for a moment, and then gave a theatrical little cough, “it's a pleasure, ma'am, I was just wondering when pa-pa was coming home. I'm... hungry...”  
The lip came out, and wobbled. His eyes grew round and shiny.  
“Oh you poor, dear sweet thing! You wait right here-”  
  
Ms Paint immediately scurried into the back of the shop, and Slick rounded on Karkat in a fury.  
“What the fuck is alla this over here?”  
“Oh, what, sorry was I interrupting you at work dad? Or is this a social visit?”  
“You little shit, I'm gonna stab you right up the-”  
“Here we are!” Ms Paint returned carrying a paper handkerchief laden with a little stack of warm cookies, “fresh from the oven, I simply insist you try them young man, you can let me know if I have the recipe right!”  
“Gosh! I think you're the prettiest, loveliest lady ever!” Karkat flashed her the widest most urchin-like grin ever, straight out of one of those awful romantic movies Slick despised.  
“Why, you're such a little gentleman! You eat up, you need to grow up big and strong!”  
Karkat beamed at her around a mouthful of cookie, and then fluttered his eyelashes innocently up at Slick.  
“Say. Son. How's about you skidaddle on outta here and let your old dad talk to the nice lady?” Slick was having a little difficulty talking as his teeth were welded together in a rictus-grin of rage.  
“Sure thing, pop, I just wanted to come over and let you know that I saw Uncle Deuce get a can of gas and it looked like he sure was planning something special with it! Boy, gee whiz.”  
“You is such a good little fuh-fella comin' here to tell me all about it.” Slick leaned over slowly, “remind me to give ya a lil' talk about how great it is you stickin' your cute lil nose all over my business.”  
  
Slick straightened up and gave Ms Paint a manic little bow that turned into a bizarre awkward little curtsey.  
“I'll, uh, I'll just... can I see ya again maybe?”  
“Of course, Mister Slick! I work here, silly!”  
“Yeah! I mean, uh, sure! I'll be around!”  
Slick raced out of the door and off down the street, and in the distance could be heard a rising yell.  
“Put that down you stupid- oh shit it's everywhere!”  
  
Karkat smiled and nodded up at Ms Paint, gobbling down the last of the cookies greedily.  
“Nice cookies ma'am, I like them.”  
“You're such a lovely little man, why thank-you!”  
“I better go now, I think my dad forgot he was carrying around a lit cigarette.”  
“Oh, goodness!”  
Karkat gave a curt little nod and walked out, and from outside the screams and general diverse alarms echoed down the street.  
  
As he turned away from the street Karkat slipped his sleeve up and spoke directly into the plastic crab-watch buckled to his wrist.  
“Crabsolute Power to Naked Rambition- you were right, they're definitely up to something crazy.”


	4. Chapter 4

A new day dawned on Cue Street, and as ever Ms Paint was up bright and early to open up the tea shop. She whistled softly as she pulled open the windows and arranged a fresh spray of flowers in the wide bay window. She lit the gas on the boiler and hummed a merry little tune while the water came to the boil, giving her enough time to give the stoop a quick once-over with a broom. She then saw to giving Oscar his breakfast.  
  
Across the street, Slick was behind the counter of the Midnight Brew with a pair of binoculars, watching hey every move, while Boxcars fiddled with the obscure coffee machinery. At one of the tables, Droog and Deuce were playing poker in seething, aggressive silence.  
“Boxcars,” said Slick, “what have you done?”  
“What's that, boss?”  
“Simple question, Boxcars, what have you done?”  
“I did like you tole me boss,”  
“Yeah, yeah I figured, but just... go with me on this one. Tell me what you done, Boxcars.”  
Boxcars glanced up from where he had been adjusting a valve beneath the machine. He didn't like the way that Slick was so still, and quiet. All except for the binoculars, which were shaking slightly in his hands. Boxcars felt vaguely like this was a bad sign.  
“What have you DONE, BoxCARS?” Slick was definitely upset, “WHAT did you DO?”  
  
Deuce looked over at the first sign of rage, and Droog attempted to lean over and get a look at his hand.  
  
“Well, boss,” Boxcars began slowly, “you said we was goin' to send them a message.”  
“Yeah. Go on.”  
“Like, a traditional gangster threat kinda thing?”  
“Yeah. Keep on talkin' Boxcars.”  
“You don't seem too happy, boss,”  
“It's fine Boxcars, keep goin'.”  
“So you said I was to give the tea lady a fish, like to say 'youse is gonna sleep with the fishes,' 'cause that's the tradition.”  
“I did. I did say that, yes I did. Tell me Boxcars, what did you go an' do next?”  
“So I did like you tole me, boss. I got her a fish.”  
  
Across the street, Ms Paint dropped a few flakes into Oscar's bowl, and smiled as he gratefully snapped them up with an adorable bloop-bloop sound. She chuckled and shook her head, before getting back to setting out the day's selection of backed pastries.  
  
“You sure did, Boxcars, you sure did. Here's the thing, though. I was expectin' that maybe you'd leave an anonymous package at the door, with a gross dead fish in it, or somethin' similar. That would have been fucking creepy. That would have been straight up nasty, and then she would be thinkin' she's dealin' with some badass gangsters over here.”  
“Ah, right,”  
“Ah right indeed, Boxcars.”  
  
She would have run screaming of course, straight into the arms of the nearest strong man- and oh look, there is that nice Mr Slick who came in the other day. _Oh my,_ she would say, _I feel that I am in danger and what-not._ He would take her in his arms and tell her not to worry, 'cause he was going to take care of everything and look after her. Slick could see it all in his mind, perfectly. It would have been wonderful.  
  
“I, uh, I may have got things wrong, boss.”  
“Why yes, Boxcars, I do believe you did. Because, and I want to be absolutely clear about this, the tea shop lady has failed to be intimidated by your terrifyin' warning. In fact, and I don't think I am goin' too far here, it looks to me like she is de-FUCKING-lighted with your lovely welcome-to-the-neighbourhood present of a LOVELY fucking GOLDFISH. Tell me, Boxcars, is this gang called the fucking LOVELY CREW?”  
“Uh, no boss, it ain't.”  
“Okay. I just wanted to make that clear, cause you see I was getting' all confused about it over here. Guys, listen up! We're gonna have a gang meeting in one hour, in the lair!”  
  
Droog tossed down his cards with a shrug. He had been on a losing hand anyway. As they were getting up, Slick gestured at Deuce to come over.  
“Deuce, I got a job for you, later.”  
“Sure thing,”  
“Dat fish- it's got ta go.”  
“What do you mean, go?”  
“The fish is gonna sleep with the fishes,”  
“Well, yes.”  
“I mean I'm putting a hit out on the fish! I want you ta take care of business, over here!”  
“Oh! Oh I get it boss, no problem.”  
“One thing though,” Slick rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “you gotta make it look like an accident or something. No trail back here.”  
“But I thought we wanted the tea lady to think we was badass gangsters?”  
“Just get it done, okay? Deuce?”  
“You got it, boss!”  
  
Slick could see it now. He would turn a disaster into a triumph. When her beloved pet fish got whacked the sensitive Ms Paint would be distraught. She would turn every which-way for comfort, and boom- there's the nice Mr Slick from across the street with a shoulder to cry on all greased up and ready. Slick smirked. This time would be perfect. _Yo,_ he would drawl, _someone call out for a tough guy over here?_  
  
Slick was still smirking and muttering under his breath when he came out of his daydream and realised that Droog and Boxcars were staring at him around the table of their lair.  
“You okay there, boss?” Droog asked, with a singular lack of interest.  
“Yes! Yes! Okay! Here we go, new plan!” Slick reached for a new sheet of blueprint paper.  
“Hey,” Boxcars glanced around, “where's Deuce?”  
“Onna job,” Slick growled, “now pay attention!”  
  
He began sketching out the street again, and Droog muttered something under his breath. Slick paused, and slowly the rum of his fedora came up as he glared at Droog.  
“Somethin' on your mind there?”  
“I was just thinkin' over here,”  
“Yeah?”  
“Why don't I just walk over there,”  
“Yeah?”  
“With, like, a bomb,”  
“Yeah?”  
“And... that's it. We blow the place up. Badda-bing, end of story, close da book.”  
“Close da book?”  
“And put it onna shelf.”  
  
Slick lit a fresh cigarette. The others watched him, carefully.  
  
“What are we here for?” He said slowly.  
“Uh,” Boxcars ventured, “makin' a plan to get rid of that fruity tea shop deal?”  
“That's right, Boxcars, well done. And what kinda guys are we?”  
“Uh, I dunno, a gang?”  
“That's RIGHT! And we're gonna make a proper gang plan and carry it out like a gang, agreeing on the plan together, and that means doin' everything I say!”  
“Boss?”  
“No bombs, you got that? No settin' the place on fire, no guns, we're gonna do things classy, see? Classy! We're gonna run that dame outta business with style, see?”  
  
 _Oh, Slick! I just don't know what to do, how am I supposed to live in this rough, dangerous town full of mobsters and such? Who can I turn to in these dark times..._  
  
“Uh, boss? You got that weird look in your eye again and you're kinda laughing under your breath in a weird way.”  
“I wasn't laughing! I mean, I was laughing, ha ha ha, about how much ass this gang kicks is all.”  
  
 _I simply don't know what I would have done if you weren't there for me Slick, is there... any way... I can repay your kindness, what with the ta-ta's and the curves and the whatnow?_  
  
Slick lit another cigarette and leered.  
“So, new plan time.”  
“Right.”  
“Okay, boss.”  
Slick was about to launch into another of his amazing plans, when they were interrupted by Deuce, who staggered unsteadily into the basement lair, dabbing at his cheek with a paper towel. He swayed and staggered his way to his seat, while the others watched in bemusement. Boxcars was openly laughing at him.  
“I'm here!” He announced, “I'm here, I'm here, let's go!”  
“Deuce?” Slick frowned.  
“No problem boss! Job done!”  
“Deuce, I can't help but notice the series of small laceratin' injuries you have apparently succumbed to.”  
“Yeah, pretty bad huh?”  
“And I can't help but point out how you is bleeding all over the blueprints.”  
“Yeah, sorry about that boss!”  
“Maybe you wanna explain yourself at this juncture?”  
Deuce tapped the side of his nose and winked at Slick, which made him start to panic.  
“Deuce, what have you done?”  
“Hey, just like you said, boss. Takin' care of business. Dealin' with things.”  
“Deuce. I realise I have you a simple task which you cannot possibly have found any way of fuckin' up, but... indulge me... what have you done?”  
“Okay, so you told me ta ice da fish, right?”  
“Yeah, that I did, I did that.”  
“So yeah, I put out a hit for ya, boss.”  
  
Slick blinked. Once again, Deuce had baffled him with that highly specialised genius that only Deuce tended to be privy to.  
  
“Deuce, you only been gone, like, forty minutes?”  
“Yeah, I was quick.”  
“What the hell did you do, Deuce?” Slick was starting to enter a state of mild panic, “what did you DO? DEUCE?”  
“I did like you said! No trail, you said, nothin' ta come back to us, you said! I hired a professional!”  
“What the fuck kinda a professional comes out for a FISH? DEUCE?”  
Deuce just shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I hired a cat.”  
“A cat?”  
“A hit-cat, yeah.”  
“Wha- who did you get?”  
“Tommy Two-Tone, the Tuxedo Terror.”  
“To hit the fish?”  
“Well, yeah!”  
  
Slick took a moment to adjust his world-view to take this all in.  
“So, all those cuts on your face...”  
“We're talkin' about the meanest hit cat in town, Slick! A real animal!”  
“Yes, yes I would imagine,” Slick collapsed back in his chair, fanning himself with his fedora.  
“I guess the job oughta be done by now,” Deuce commented, looking at his wristwatch.  
“Okay, Deuce, okay. Why don't we go take a look?”  
  
They congregated in the Midnight Brew, all of them looking out of the widow, and in Deuce's case pressed up against the glass. Slick still had his binoculars.  
“Well,” Slick said.  
“Yeah,” Boxcars added.  
“Ayup,” commented Droog, non-committally.  
“Deuce,” asked Slick, “please explain ta me this scene of carnage an' death I am lookin' at over here.”  
  
Across the street in her tea room, Ms Paint was having a cheerful day. After feeding Oscar, she had laid out the pastries and got the tea brewing, and the first customers of the day had drifted in. Everyone loved the new shop, and people would come to have a spot of tea or perhaps a light meal for lunch. She treated all her customers like valued guests, and they loved to be there. Today, just as she was getting ready for the lunchtime rush, a strange little kitty had wandered in. He looked like he had got up to quite a few adventures in his life, he had a funny eye that faced the wrong way and a 'meow' that sounded more like a deep rumbling growl. When he had strutted into her shop he had immediately fixed on Oscar, like a naughty kitty looking for a free meal, but Ms Paint knew exactly how to deal with naughty kitties.  
  
“I just,” Slick stammered, “I don't even-”  
  
After a thorough brushing and a bath, which had been quite a struggle, Ms Paint had given Mr Tibblesnitch, as she had named him, a bowl of water and some sweet pastry crumbs to enjoy. He liked her cooking so much that she had ended up giving him an entire croissant all to himself, and now Mr Tibblesnitch was firmly ensconced on her lap, purring like a motorboat and looking very pleased with life. She had found no collar or tag on him and so had assumed he was a poor lost stray in need of a little love and care, and she made it clear with tummy-rubs and head-stroking just the way he liked that she would love to welcome him to her new family.  
  
“Lemme surmise, if I may,” Slick said slowly, “at the beginning of the day we decided that we was goin' to show this dame who's boss around here, and deliver a terrifyin' threat that would make her re-think her whole business, right?”  
“Right,”  
“Right,”  
“Right,”  
“And by lunchtime, what we have succeeded in doing is not only giving her a lovely welcome-to-the neighbourhood gift of a goldfish, we have also found a lovely new cat to be a friend for her too. I mean, correct me if I am wrong here, but it seems to me like this gang is doin' everything it possibly can to make her feel a sense of welcoming friendship, over here. Excuse me if I'm missin' something, maybe youse can explain this to me?”  
  
Deuce just shook his head sadly at the fate of the hit-cat he had hired.  
“Oh man,” he sighed, “the Mogfather ain't gonna like this.”  
There was a sharp, tinny snap. The binoculars in Slick's hands had stopped shaking, but one of the lenses had cracked.  
  
Upstairs in the attic, Sollux was tapping away on his laptop furiously. He had assembled his nerve-centre of operations there, and with the help of the others was organising a ruthlessly efficient surveillance operation over their fathers. The remote cameras were going up all over the place, and he had wired the shop for sound. As he listened in on what the gang was doing he shook his head incredulously and radioed down to his field agent.  
“Double Imdemnibee to Highly Flammabull, you there Tav?”  
“High, uh, Highly Flammabull here,” the speaker hissed, “I'm pretty much, in position!”  
“You won't believe what theeth idiot-th have done now.”  
“Oh no, is it something bad? I mean, over?”  
Sollux chuckled and scratched the back of his neck.  
“Let'th jutht thay, it'th original.”  
  
Outside the Midnight Brew, in the alleyway running beside the shop, Tavros was parked. He was acting as an impromptu stepladder for Aradia, who had clambered up onto him awkwardly to fix one of Sollux's cameras where it would have a view into the street. He didn't mind, as he had explained to her repeatedly until she had told him to keep quiet. He had offered to help her balance by holding onto her legs as she stood precariously astride the armrests of his wheelchair, but she had firmly declined. Every now and then her dress flapped him in the face, which was an interesting sensation.  
“Uh, Aradia?”  
“What is it Tavros, I'm nearly done here and I need to concentrate.”  
“Sollux says they are getting up to things again, uh, I think he is finding it quite funny?”  
“Well we'll just see, won't we?” She mumbled around the screwdriver between her teeth, “we'll just see who gets the last laugh.”  
“I think,” said Tavros gravely, “I can see why it's fun to be in a gang, I mean, it's fun having things to do like this.”  
“Hush Tavros, we aren't a gang. Gangs are stupid.”  
“Oh, okay,”  
Aradia hopped down neatly gestured to him for the radio, which she spoke into.  
“Naked Rambition to all units! Phase Alpha is complete! Converge on base camp!”  
She clicked off the radio and handed it back to Tavros, who wheeled after her obediently as she strode off.  
“I still think,” muttered Tavros, “that we make, you know, a pretty cool gang, really.”  
“Hush, Tavros.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Okay. How do I look?”  
“I dunno. All right I guess?”  
“C'mon seriously, how do I look?”  
“Pretty sharp I s'pose.”  
Slick smirked in the mirror and adjusted, minutely, the set of his tie before brushing down his lapels for the umpteenth time. He turned away from the mirror toward Karkat, who was sitting boredly on the bed, and made a 'ta-daa' gesture. Karkat gave him a weary thumbs-up. Slick combed his slicked-back hair one more time, and carefully added the fedora. He looked sharp indeed. He looked like he would leave you bleeding if you stared too hard, in his opinion. Karkat looked like he couldn't care less.  
  
Slick stepped jauntily over to the bed of his little room, careful not to scuff his new wing-tips with the midnight-black spats that were barely even visible so black were they, and sat down next to his son with a creak of springs. His bedroom wasn't exactly welcoming, the walls were covered in  faded, shabby prints with a single framed photograph of the gang and their kids occupying the centre of one wall. The kids looked like they were in varying degrees of horror at being variously hugged, lifted and displayed for the photographer and the gang looked like they would look after these little bundles of aggravation no matter what. The dressing table had a matte-black revolver dangling from a shoulder-holster left casually over one corner of the mirror. The wardrobe looked like it had been used for target practice with throwing-knives more then a few times. Slick glanced thoughtfully into the bare corner at the end of the room, where there had once been a baby's crib. He had got the thing from a guy, no questions asked, and he didn't like to think about where it had originally come from. Of course, it had been a long time since he had shared a room with his son. Karkat had grown out of the crib, and grown out of this room with his dad.  
  
“So,” Slick said vaguely.  
“Yeah dad?”  
“I look pretty good, right?”  
“Sure.”  
“See, here's the thing. Hey, listen, this is important, okay?”  
Karkat looked up at him blankly.  
“Okay. Son. Here it is. I'm, uh, I'm gonna be seein' a dame tonight, capische?”  
“Ah,”  
“Yeah. And, you know, it's kinda a big deal over here, I want things ta go well,” he coughed awkwardly into his fist.  
“Sure, dad, you look great.”  
“Yeah I know, I know. Listen, how would you feel about it if I was to... get close to a dame some time?”  
“Whatever, just remember I'm in the room below and the bed is squeaky.”  
Karkat bounced up and down to demonstrate once, and Slick nearly pulled his fedora down over his ears to hide the sudden and unexpected blush.  
“Jeez! Who ever tole you about- jeez kid, nuttin' like that!” Slick saw the way Karkat was grinning at him and ruffled the boy's hair fondly, “oh sure, put the wind up your old man. Real cute, kid. I oughta cut ya a new lip, ya little shit.”  
Slick was suddenly reminded of how it was when Karkat was just starting to walk, and how he would insist on following his dad around everywhere with that grim, penetrating expression. It had been hilarious and sweet, and when Slick realised that Karkat was trying to copy the way he acted he realised it was time to settle down. That had been when they had decided to turn the place into a coffee shop.  
“Da-a-ad,”  
“Yeah?”  
“It's okay, you know.”  
“Yeah?”  
“It's good if you found someone.” Karkat looked down and casually knocked his knees together as he thought about it, “it's time.”  
“I got your blessing now, huh?”  
“Sure, if you want,” Karkat was always so serious about things sometimes. Slick wondered where he got it from.  
“Well thanks for that,” Slick stood up, “not like I even needed it or anythin', I'm a grown-ass man over here, I got an itch ta scratch.”  
“Da-a-ad!” Now it was Karkat's turn to squirm and Slick smirked.  
“Oh yeah, you ain't heard nothin' yet, I'm gonna make these springs squeal!”  
Karkat flopped back, appalled, but he was also giggling maniacally.   
Slick adjusted his fedora one last time and adopted a rakish pose.  
“Don't wait up!”  
  
Slick whistled through his teeth merrily as he danced his way down the rickety stars to the shop, where the gang were hanging around. The Midnight Brew only really started to pick up when the night people drifted by, and it would generally stay open as long as anyone felt like keeping on going. Droog was sat on a stool behind the till, reading a paper which he hunched over like a vulture, while Boxcars was tending his beloved machinery and Deuce ran a rag across some of the greasier furnishings.  
“I'm goin' out,” Slick announced without preamble.  
“Sure thing boss, lemme get my hat,” Deuce put down his rag.  
“Nah, nah, I'm goin' out on my own.”  
Deuce paused. Boxcars straightened up, and even Droog turned a page in a way that suggested he might be listening.  
“Going where boss?” Boxcars rumbled.  
“Just out, y'know? Out. Do I got ta explain myself over here? Ya wanna hold my hand or somethin'?”  
“But boss...” Deuce groped for words, crestfallen.  
  
Droog carefully closed and folded his paper, and placed it down on the bar delicately.  
“He's going ta see the tea dame.”  
That got Boxcars and Deuce both talking at once, and Slick shot Droog a baleful glare which went ignored.  
“Boss! Really?” Deuce bounced.  
“Dat dame over the street?” Boxcars leaned on the bar, folding his arms.  
“Whatcha gonna do boss? The ole knife inna guts?”  
“Shaddap!” Slick snapped, “shaddap both-a youse! Okay you wanna know what I'm doin'? You got nothin' better ta do then gimme the third degree over here? Fine, I'm gonna go over there,” he paused, choosing his words very carefully, “and I'm going to scope out the competition. Get an idea what this thing is all about. Get a feel for the... situation. So shaddap and get back ta work ya bums!”  
Slick strode out, shoving some hipster douchebag unlucky enough to get in the way into a table and slammed the door shut after him.  
  
“What did I say?” Deuce protested.  
“Ah-h-h,” Boxcars grinned, “dat is a man who is about ta dance the dance of lah-moor.”  
“What are you talkin' about?”  
“He's sweet on the dame, ain't he?”  
“Naw, there's no way.”  
“What are you, doubtin' me over here?”  
“Naw. I'm just sayin' you're more fulla shit then the back-house crapper on spicy ravioli night.”  
“Oh! Big man! Come over here an' say that!”  
“I'll say it over here and over there too, you're full of it!”  
As the inevitable fist-fight began, Droog just sighed and lifted his paper up.  
“Well I hope you're right Boxcars,” he murmured, unheard in the sudden melee which saw an unfortunate hipster who had recently been slammed into a table crushed under the weight of an angry Boxcars, “because that is a man what needs ta get laid, and soon.”  
  
Upstairs, in the attic, the antics in the shop did not go unnoticed. Aradia now had their parents under constant watch, and as Slick made his way across the street she was glaring at his retreating back balefully on one of Sollux's screens. Tavros was casually rolling back and forth behind her while Sollux took a nap on the pile of cushions, and there was a creak of floorboard as Karkat mad his way into their lair.  
“Looks like your dad is having a night on the town Karkat,” Aradia mused.  
“Yeah, he said he was going out.”  
“Right, well that makes things a little more complex, but we can still keep full surveillance on the shop while we follow him by-”  
“Wait! Hold up!”  
“What is it?”  
“Well, maybe we shouldn't be doing all this, I mean, we can pick up again in the morning, right?”  
Aradia swivelled on her seat to glare at him.  
“Just ignore everything going on? This might be a critical point! We have to have full coverage!”  
“I'm not sure I want full coverage of everything going on tonight, is what I'm saying.”  
Aradia frowned, and snapped her fingers sharply.  
“Tavros! I'll need you to go out and do some recon.”  
“Oh, okay, if you like,” Tavros said nervously.  
“Tav, stop,” Karkat placed a hand on a wheel of Tavros' chair, “we're not going out tonight, no one is.”  
Aradia bristled. “Hey Karkat! Since when were you in charge of this-”  
“This what? Gang?”  
“-Group! I was going to say group. And we agreed at the beginning that we weren't going to let our dads get away with this sort of nonsense.”  
  
They went quiet. The atmosphere had changed, tangibly. Sollux was awake now, but he was quiet. He tended to go silent when there were people shouting, and now he was just looking from one to the other of them nervously and taking in quick, shallow breaths.  
“Karkat,” Araida said primly, “you can't just tell Tavros what to do. He agreed to be a part of this group so he should do as I say.”  
“Well Aradia,” Karkat sweetly retorted, “maybe in fact you can shove it up your big fat ass, how is that for you? Okay?”  
“Tavros doesn't want to hear your- your- potty-mouth!”  
“Tavros is doing just fine! Tavros can make his own decisions!”  
“That's exactly what I mean, Tavros has decided to follow our plans!”  
“Tavros thinks you're just being a stuck-up bitch and he's too nice to say it!”  
“Tavros can say exactly what he thinks thankyou-very-much and he doesn't need your help to do it!”  
“Guyth, pleathe”  
“Tavros is sick of your shit, quite frankly thankyou-very much!”  
“Tavros never even liked you!” Aradia yelled.  
“GUYTH!”  
  
They stopped, and looked when Sollux gestured with a shaking hand. They saw it at the same time, and immediately they lost the will to fight each other. Between them, Tavros was staring down into his lap and had the shaking, stiff posture of a child fighting back tears. His cheeks were already wet.   
“Tavros,”  
“I'm sorry man,”  
“We're both sorry, honest.”  
“Yeah,” Karkat grimaced, “we didn't mean it, we were just angry, okay?”  
Tavros wiped the heel of his hand against his eye and shook his head.  
“It's, it's all right guys, I'm sorry, okay?”  
Araida sighed and started rubbing his back, “no, it's not okay. We were mean, and we shouldn't have  been. We're sorry Tavros, aren't we Karkat?”  
“Yeah,” he sighed, “real sorry, Tav.”  
“I think, um, if it's okay, I really think, we make a pretty good gang, really.”  
“We are the betht gang,” Sollux said.  
Tavros smiled shyly, looking around at the others as they shuffled closer to him.  
“We can pick up again tomorrow,” Aradia announced, “we don't need to make any plans tonight.”  
Karkat nodded at her and mouthed the word 'thanks.'  
“Aradia, we'll get you your basement back,” Tavros started shyly, “promise.”  
Now it was Aradia's turn to swallow thickly and compose herself.  
“It's not about the basement,” she said, “he could have the basement any time he wanted I don't mind, it's just... he never even asked me.”  
The others looked at her as she ran a hand through her hair.  
“It'd be nice if he even cared what I thought about it.”  
  
Slick strode manfully into the English Tea Room, jangling the door open and pivoting on the ball of his foot to spin his way across the floor like a dancer. He came to rest against the bar as Ms Paint looked up in surprise, and brushed the fingernails of one hand over his lapel, blowing on them casually.  
“Hey, yo, fancy seeing you around here,” he looked at her from under the brim of his fedora.  
“Oh, Mr Slick, how do you do!” She smiled.  
“You're always talkin' in that classy kinda a way, it's like somethin' out of a book.”  
“Why, thank you I'm sure,” she giggled, “did you want a cup of tea perhaps?”  
“Yeah maybe I did, maybe I did, but here's the thing. Hows about you and me blow this joint and take off somewhere nice, and maybe we can do a little dancing, have a little drink, and I show you a real nice time huh?”  
“Mr Slick, are you proposing we take the air together?”  
“Honey, you and me gonna take all the air there is, leave it to old Slick, I'll give ya a night to remember.”  
“Oh but I simply couldn't! We don't close until eight, you see-”  
“Aw come on, what's the harm? Take a night off, I'll make ya an offer you can't refuse.” Slick waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.  
  
“Pardon me,” came a voice from beside them, “but the lady has quite the evening ahead of her and cannot be leaving at the moment.”  
Slick looked over crossly, “and who the hell says so?”  
“Doctor Scratch, at your service sir.”  
The man looked nondescript to the extreme, his face was bland to the point that he had no real distinguishing features, and the pale blonde hair plastered to his head was similarly flat and featureless. He wore an immaculate greenish wool suit, cut with a trim fit and the double-venting of the English style. Slick smirked and poked a thumb toward the newcomer.  
“Who's this douche bag?”  
“M-my partner,” Ms Paint stammered, “I'm sorry, I really am, but I have customers to serve and I can't go out with you.”  
“Wha-”  
Doctor Scratch laid a hand gently on Slick's shoulder.  
“She was both clear and precise, there is nothing further she wishes to discuss with you.”  
Slick was still looking directly at Ms Paint, who had averted her gaze.  
“Partner, huh? That so? He talk for you now, kiddo?”  
She just shook her head and looked down, “I'm sorry, I can't. I really can't.”  
Doctor Scratch squeezed Slick's shoulder amiably.  
“It's time for you to leave now, I think.”  
Slick straightened up and stared straight at the man.  
“Says you, huh?”  
“That is correct.”  
“Sure, whatever.” He flashed a look at Ms Paint, who wouldn't even look at him, and tugged on his lapels smartly before turning to leave.  
“Yeah well. Nice place you got here, Scratch.”  
“Thank you, I like to think I am an excellent host.”  
“Sure. Hope it goes well. Cause ya know, we all have bad luck now and then.”  
“I wouldn't know anything about that.”  
“Give it time.” Slick glowered, before striding out of the shop. He couldn't get the sight of Ms Paint out of his head, he knew the look of someone who was under the thumb, he had put plenty of people there himself. Whatever this character had on her, it had to be something pretty big. Partner, she had called him. Right. That and more, most likely. Slick lit a cigarette as he pushed his way into the Midnight Brew. The others looked up at the black silhouette he made in the doorway, a wreath of smoke made a halo around his shadowed face.  
  
Deuce looked to the others for a moment, and cleared his throat.  
“Back early? How'd it go?”  
“Change of plans,” Slick growled, “gang meeting, right now. We're puttin' 'em outta the tea business once an' for all, it's about time we got fuckin' serious about our work.”  
Slick stamped past, down the stair to the basement. Deuce followed meekly, and Boxcars shared a look with Droog, who just shrugged.  
“Well,” Boxcars muttered, “I guess it didn't go so good.”


	6. Chapter 6

Slick was different, when they met up for the next session of planning. He had been unusually- for him- wired for a few days, but there was a certain darkness to his mood which the others were picking up on. Deuce kept hopping about nervously as Slick unrolled chart after chart of blueprint paper and they got down to work. While he carefully drew out the stages of the plan, he kept muttering under his breath about “that limey bastard” and for some reason he wouldn't stop complaining about tweed.  
  
“Listen up,” Slick growled, “here's the thing. You can't have a fruity-ass tea shop without any tea, right?”  
“Right,”  
“Right,”  
“Right,”  
“So we're gonna pull a heist job and boost the next shipment of tea comin' in. I got a lead on it, there's a delivery truck gonna be bringin' in a crate of fine-ass tea, that fancy English stuff, but it ain't gonna arrive.”  
The others shared a variety of evil looks. This they could get on board with, a good old fashioned robbery- hopefully with violence.  
“No problem boss,” Boxcars rumbled, “snatch the tea, simple.”  
“Ah-h-h I ain't done yet, that's just stage one. We don't just got to steal the tea, we're gonna replace the shipment with a little surprise.”  
Slick reached under the table to a leather snap-case bag he had set down earlier and produced a bundle of explosive, complete with a clockwork timer affixed. Each of the brown paper-wrapped sticks was embossed with the letters T.N.T.  
Droog raised an eyebrow, “we're gonna blow the joint?”  
“Damn straight,” Slick leered.  
“Can't help but ta notice that is basically the plan I originally came up with, over here,” Droog commented nonchalantly.  
“Oh hey there's somethin' I forgot to mention. It's shut the fuck up. Sorry, I forgot to stick that in there.”  
“Whatever,”  
  
Slick directed their attention to a map of the surrounding environs, upon which was marked a trail in red marker in a route across town and down Cue street.  
“The tea is bein' delivered in a crate, that's on a delivery truck takin' this route over here. It's got a whole bunch of deliveries bein' made all at once, so we're gonna stop the truck, distract the driver- that's your job Deuce- while Droog and Boxcars break into the back quietly and make the switch. One bomb for a bunch of tea. The box gets delivered and at the right moment boom- that's all she wrote, Irene.”  
Droog was nodding slowly as the plan unfolded, “okay, I get it, and there's no trail back to us here, right?”  
“Bingo bango. All anyone knows is there's been a tragic accident, and no one's the wiser. By the time the bomb goes off we're all right here dealing with the evening rush, with a perfect alibi.”  
The others all agreed that it sounded like a good plan. They all agreed that it sounded like a simple, brutal, perfect plan which had no room for error.  
  
“Uh,” Boxcars ventured, “whaddabout the dame, though?”  
They all looked at Slick expectantly. His expression was singularly unreadable.  
“Well,” said Slick, “after tonight, I guess there ain't no dame any more.”  
The others shared looks, they were obviously a little uncomfortable about this but no-one wanted to bring it up with Slick. They were, after all, a gang and this was a matter of defending their territory. But then, things had been pretty good when it had just been the bunch of them running a coffee shop. It had been kind of peaceful, and they had been doing good business.  
“You, uh, you really think you can ice this dame?” Boxcars mumbled.  
“Listen, ass fuck, she made her choice. No one ever said I didn't try and be a good guy over here.”  
No one said it, but they were all thinking it. The deafening roar of what no one was saying throbbed throughout the room.  
“Anyways,” Slick unrolled a new sheet of paper and drew a crude representation of a crate, “this is what we're gonna call 'Box A,' which contains the tea. You get in the delivery van, take the tea, and put the bomb in 'Box A.' Got it? It's the box that has fruity-ass tea shop written all over it.”  
“So what do we do with the tea, anyway?”  
“Good point Droog, I'm comin' ta that. Youse can't be walkin' around with a buncha tea, that would look bad right before a bomb goes off inna tea shop, so here's what you do.”  
  
Slick drew another box, and marked it with a large 'B.'  
  
“You open up some other box, I don't give a shit, and you dump the tea in it. Capische?”  
“Uh,”  
“Tea in Box B. Right?”  
“Right,”  
“Right,”  
“Right,”  
“Okay, so the bomb is on a clockwork timer. Before ya dump it in the box, you got to wid it up with this,” Slick held out a key, and Droog took it with a nod, “give it three good turns, that'll put an hour on the timer, and then you just sneak on out an' give Deuce the signal to drop the distraction act and let the van go on it's way. Simple!”  
“Right!”  
“Right!”  
“Right!”  
“Nothin' going to go wrong this time, okay? We're doin' this thing. We're makin' it happen.”  
  
Slick was not the only one making things happen, however. Unbeknownst to the crew, they were being observed by Aradia and her own little gang up in the attic.  
“I don't believe it,” she whispered, “they're really going to blow it up?”  
They were all clustered around Sollux's computer, and were watching the live video feed.  
“I gueth tho,” Sollux observed.  
“Thats, uh, a little harsh? I guess? I mean, it's pretty harsh.” Tavros rejoindered.  
They stared at the screen for a moment longer, and one by one turned to look at Karkat, who had been unusually quiet, which for him meant that he had been quiet in degree at all.  
  
“We have to stop this,” he said firmly, “tonight.”  
That decided it for them, and they all agreed.  
“Well we have some planning to do, then,” Aradia said, “Sollux, see if you can get a good image of that map they had open, I want to see where they are going to get to the van.”  
  
The first grey light of dawn illuminated the soft blanket of mist that curled at knee-level over the streets and boulevards. The streets were quiet except for the occasional car and the odd drunk staggering home by the dawn light. Chugging stolidly, working slowly through the streets at a casual pace, came a large van, containing the morning deliveries for most of the small businesses in the commercial district. Every couple of days it travelled the same route, passing by the various stores and dropping off goods that had been ordered. The van came to a halt at a pedestrian crossing, one like so many others around town, and a short, stooped figure began to shamble across the road with the aid of a long-handled cane. The little fellow paused suddenly, his cane falling to the cobbles at his feet, and he clutched at his chest dramatically. Emitting a gargling, strangled cry he collapsed with a theatrical flourish and rolled over in front of the van.  
  
Immediately the two men driving the van got out, they were both wearing the green jumpsuits and bowler-hats of the delivery company, and they chattered nervously as they approached the falled pedestrian.  
“Uh, hey? Hey buddy? Are you okay?” One of them asked.  
“Shaddap look at him, he looks dead! Hey buddy, you dead?”  
On the ground Deuce, for it was he, raised a trembling hand weakly and croaked.  
“P-pills!”  
“Oh! You got some medicine there?”  
“F-front pocket-”  
“Here, let me just-”  
“O-ther f-front puh, pocket-”  
“Oh, okay, just, uh, roll over a little here-”  
“Oh-h-h-h, my heart!”  
  
  
This went on for some time. As soon as the delivery men seemed to be on the way to helping the guy out, he would mysteriously develop a whole new series of coughs and rattles. Meanwhile, behind the van, Droog and Boxcars materialised out of an alleyway and snuck up to the rear doors. Droog produced a slender pick and went to work on the lock- he was just as good as ever he was, and the lock clicked open in a matter of seconds. When Deuce produced a particularly throaty moan they clambered inside silently and looked around. There were boxes everywhere in the dimness, addressed to all manner of businesses of every kind. A perfunctory examination revealed the one destined for the tea shop and Boxcars levered off the top with an iron catspaw. The box contained, neatly laid out, five pounds of purest English Lady Grey tea, in artful paper bags decorated with etchings of fancy looking men putting serious attention into enjoying their tea.  
  
Droog passed the bags in turn to Boxcars and neatly laid the bomb in place among the packaging material. From outside, they heard the delivery men chatting among themselves.  
“Hey,” Boxcars hissed, “hold dese bags a second, I need ta get another of these things open.”  
“What? No! I got to-” it was too late, Boxcars shoved an armful of tea at Droog, who had been about to activate the bomb with the little key. Boxcars levered open another box, and Droog dumped his load of tea into it perfunctorily before Boxcars jammed the lid down again.   
  
Droog looked down at his hands, and then in a panic he started patting his pockets.  
“What is it?”  
“Shit!” Droog hissed, “where's the little key?”  
“You just had it!”  
“I know! Where did it- oh shit! That box, get it open again, I musta threw it in with the tea.”  
“Okay just-”  
  
From outside there came an ominous sound. The delivery men were working on dragging Deauce to the curb, while Deuce tried to be as awkward as possible, and one of them had decided what to do.  
“C'mon, I'll get to a phone and call a ambulance, you stay here with him-”  
Droog and Boxcars shared a look as the van shifted with the weight of someone getting into the cab. In a panic they realised what was about to happen and Boxcars slammed the final box lid down over the bomb, before they leapt lightly out of the van and gently pressed the door shut. Looking out of the corner of his eye Deuce saw them leave and, thinking that the job was done, he sat up spryly.  
“Hey lookat that, I feel great over here! Musta just been gas!”  
“Uh, you sure buddy?” The delivery man with him seemed dubious.  
“Of course! No problem! Hey it's all good, you just make sure ta get back to work, okay?”  
  
The van chugged into life and it was too late- it began to trundle off with an inert bomb within. Droog and Boxcars explained the situation to Deuce, who paled.  
“Oh shit, Slick ain't gonner like this.”  
Droog sighed and activated his wristwatch mike, “no kidding. Bengal Dieger to King Foebra!”  
The watch crackled and hissed, and Slick's voice came through.  
“Yo King Foebra here, what's the situation?”  
“Uh, slight problem.”  
“That better be some goddamn interference comin' through over here, I thought I heard you say there was a problem!”  
“Uh, yeah, Here's the thing, the 'package' is in Box A,”  
“Good!”  
Trouble is, the key kinda ended up in Box B,”  
“The tea is supposed to be in Box B!”  
“The tea is in Box B! But so is the key!”  
“Tell me the package is ticking...”  
“Sorry boss, we uh, well-”  
“I don't even! Don't you even! Just you! Aaargh!” Slick was becoming incoherent, “get on it! I want that package ticking, you get in there and get the key from Box B, you hear me?”  
“On it, boss!”  
  
By now, the van had turned several corners and was well on its' way. It came to a halt, however, at another pedestrian crossing where a kid in a wheelchair was crossing- slowly. Halfway across the road however, Tavros seemed to come to a bump in the road for he was sent flying onto his side with a highly dramatic cry. The delivery men got out immediately, rushing to his aid.  
  
Behind the van, Karkat and Sollux pulled open the rear doors, which were still unlocked, and swarmed up into the van. The fateful box was obvious, it being the one with the lid that had been wedged down carelessly, and Karkat yanked the lid off to reveal a very serious looking bundle of T.N.T.  
“Woah,” he breathed, “you can defuse that thing, right,”  
“I'm not thure,” Sollux hissed, “I never did thomething like thith before!”  
“Well you got to do something!”  
“Oh! Hey look, thith box ith going to that old warehouthe on thixthy thecond thtreet, there'th no-one there during the day tho let'th jutht thtick it in there!”  
“Good plan!”  
They levered open the other box, which contained stacks of magazines of some kind, bound up in twine. The boys didn't pay them any attention as they were obviously not comics and didn't even look to be in colour, they quickly pulled a sheaf of magazines out and replaced it with the bomb. For good measure, they dumped the magazines into the box heading for the tea shop. When they crept out of the van they closed the doors behind them and raced over to where Tavros was moaning pitiably.  
“Oh good golly gosh!” Karkat yelled, “look what has happened to our friend! Here, let us help and such!”  
“Yeth!” Sollux yelled theatrically.  
Between them they righted Tavros, who by now seemed to be a lot better all of a sudden, and offering vague words of thanks to the nice delivery men they sped off.  
  
Karkat cackled and hit the button on his wrist communicator.  
“Crabsolute Power to base, we pulled a switch!”  
“Did you disarm it?”  
“Nah we didn't have time to look it over properly.”  
“What were you thinking! We can't leave that thing in there, you have to go back!”  
“Are you kidding me?”  
“Listen up, here's what we do...”  
  
The van trundled along merrily towards the first delivery of the day, when it was brought to a halt again. A huge, heavy-set man was just... stranding there, in the middle of the road. The driver stared at him, and he stared back uncomfortably. The driver wanted to press the horn but he didn't like the look of the guy and felt like it would be a bad idea to do so. In the end he compromised, by leaning out of the window and calling out.  
“Hey buddy! You know you're in the middle of the road, right?”  
“Uh,” said Boxcars, “oh yeah, gimme a second over here.”  
Boxcars concentrated, frowning fiercely, and clutched at his chest.  
“Oh man, I am havin' a heart attack over here,” he intoned, “I'm all about to get dead over here.”  
Boxcars sat down with a grunt, and then neatly laid down on his back.   
  
In the back of the van, Droog and Deuce yanked open the box heading for the tea room, and stared at what was within with a growing sense of horror. Droog pulled one of the magazines out of the bundle and glanced through it, at a series of pictorial articles concerning ladies who had a distinct deficit of apparel and a surfeit of confidence regarding the fact, all in tasteful monochrome.  
“I, uh,” he started, “you tell the boss, Deuce.”  
Deuce just nodded happily and hissed into his watch.  
“Poison Penguin to King Foebra! Slight hitch over, boss!”  
“What the fuck now?” Slick was getting less happy by the moment.  
“Okay, so Box A doesn't got the package in it.”  
“What? What the hell is in there?”  
“Sleaze,” said Droog happily, “the good stuff. Grey Ladies.”  
“The fuck is going on there?” Slick yelled through the tiny speaker on Deuce's wrist, “are you having some kinda a carnival funtime rumpus fair over here?”  
“Serious boss! That's what's in there!” Deuce shrugged, redundantly.  
“Okay,” said Slick, “okay, let's figure this out. First things first, what's in Box B?”  
Droog already had it open, and answered, “uh, okay the tea is in here.”  
At the other end, Slick gave out a low, growling sigh. “Now listen. We're starting over. Shift the tea from Box B and find the key.”  
“What do I do with the stuff in Box A though?”  
“Put the Lady Grey Tea in Box A, and the Grey Lady Sleaze in Box B, then you got to find the key and the T.N.T.”  
“Oh, okay,” Deuce beamed, “where's that?”  
“Fuck if I know! I guess it's in another box!”  
“Right then,” Droog was hauling bags of tea out of the box, “I shifted the tea and I can see the key and now I got the key, so which box is the T.N.T.?”  
“Call it Box C,” said Slick, who was by now drawing a chart, “start opening 'em up and figger out which it is.”  
  
Droog pulled open another box at random, this one had been addressed to Consolidated Signwriters on Ninepins Avenue.  
“Oops, wrong box,” he commented.  
“Why, what's in that one?” Deuce hopped over.  
“A Tee.” Droog straightened up, holding up a large, ornate brass letter T.  
“So which box is that one? We got to keep track.”  
“This can be Box D,”  
“So the Tee is in Box D,”  
“No dumbass the Tea is in Box A.”  
“No I mean the Tee,”  
“Oh sure, the Tee is in D.”  
“Right, we're keeping track! Lemme open one.”  
  
Deuce yanked the top off another box and cooed curiously. He reached in and retrieved a hefty looking sculpture, of a man's head. He looked stern and unforgiving, with drooping old-timey moustaches and one of those little beard deals.  
“Who's this douche?” Deuce remarked.  
“Whadda you, illiterate? It's one-a those historical busts they got in museums and shit.”  
“Yeah but who is it?”  
“General Lee.”  
“How'd you know that?”  
“My kid is into all that history shit, I picked up a few things ya know?”  
“Okay, so what box are we up to?”  
“That's Box E,”  
“Okay so the Lady Grey Tea is in Box A, the Grey Lady Sleaze is in Box B, the T.N.T. is in Box C-”  
“Which we don't found yet,”  
“Which we don't found yet, and the Tee is in Box D with Lee in Box E. You getting' all this, boss?”  
Over the walkie-talkie came the sound of someone repeatedly banging their head against a table.  
“I don't believe it!” Droog said suddenly. He was peering into a box.  
“What is it this time?” Slick sneered sarcastically, “and it better not be cheese.”  
Droog lifted the bomb up triumphantly, and jammed the key into the side, with a twist, “finally! We got it!”  
  
Outside, Boxcars was simply laying on the ground, announcing that he was in ill-health despite all indications to the contrary, while two delivery men stood nearby watching in bemusement. After a while, Boxcars checked his watch, shrugged, and stood up.  
“I got better,” he intoned loudly, “it's a miracle over here.”   
  
“Shit!” Deuce grabbed at his hat in a panic, “Boxcars is getting' up! We have to get the fuck outta here!”  
“Ah! Grab the tea, we got to go!”  
“Got it!”  
“NOT THE TEE!”  
It was too late, the engine was starting again. Droog had no time to lever open the tea shop box again, so he dropped the bomb carelessly into the box he had got it out of, and they leapt out of the van with Deuce still clutching his big brass Tee.  
  
Down the street, Karkat, Sollux and Tavros came round a corner just in time to observe Droog and Deuce sneaking out of the van carefully, while Boxcars sauntered away.  
“Shit!” Karkat hissed, “they beat us to it!”  
“D'you think they thwapped the bomb back?”  
“Of course they did! We have to get back in there!”  
“Firtht, I need to get thomething.”  
“What?”  
“Trutht me,”  
  
The crew conferred in a quiet alley as the van chugged slowly away toward a delivery. Slick was unhappy, and by now he had degenerated into randomly screaming into the mike at them. Behind them, the crew failed to notice three of their kids race off, pushing Tavros before them at a rate of knots and overtaking the van easily. They took a side street and cut across the van's route, making it back to the Midnight Brew in minutes. When Sollux explained what he needed, Karkat started to snigger horribly.  
  
The van finished the first delivery of the day, and chugged away steadily. It turned a corner, slowing down as it came to some lights, when Karkat leaped out into the road and threw himself to the ground.  
“Ah-h-h! You hit me! You bastards! A innocent child! The pain!”  
The delivery men looked at each other, they were getting less and less surprised each time.  
  
Tavros wheeled up to the back of the van and Sollux used him as a temporary stepladder to get up into the back. He carried a burlap back gingerly, and set it down before opening up the box originally intended for the tea shop. Remarkably, it contained actual tea. He scratched his head in bemusement and unloaded the bags. Looking around he noticed a box still laying open, and put the tea in there for good measure. Opening up the back, he pulled out a narrow wooden tray that was humming ominously. He had run down to the little garden allotment at the back of the shop and grabbed a full wax honeycomb from his little hive.  
“Thith'll show 'em,” he muttered under his breath as he placed it carefully in the box, wary of the ornery and irritable bees that were now starting to decide that something untoward was going on.  
  
Karkat was only able to distract the delivery men for a limited amount of time when it became obvious that he was not, in fact, victim of a brutal traffic accident. When the engine sputtered into life again Sollux realised he had run out of time, and he had to vacate the van in hurry.  
“I didn't find it!” He moaned to the others as they conferred, “we have to do thomething!”  
“We'll have to wait,” remarked Tavros calmly.  
“Why?”  
“Because Aradia's dad just jumped in front of the van. I, uh, think he's pretending to be sick.”  
  
In the back of the, once again halted, van Boxcars leaned over to watch as Deuce pulled open Box D.  
“I just got to put this Tee back in here-”  
They stared.  
“Lookat that,” remarked Boxcars, “there's already tea in there.”  
Boxcars reported this to Slick, who took the news well.  
“Let me get this straight,” he said after pausing to control his breath, “Box D now contains the Tea, instead of the Tee?”  
“Uh, yes?”  
“Fuck me, this is gettin' ridiculous. Put the Tee back in Box D!”  
“It is in Box D boss, that's what I was sayin' over here.”  
“No you fuck! Not the Tea! The Tee! The Lady Grey Tea was supposed to be in Box B,”  
“That's got the Grey Lady Sleaze in,”  
“Hold on,” Slick paused, muttering under his breath as he consulted his hastily scribbled and re-scribbled chart, “this ain't right. What the fuck is going on here? Is Lee still in Box E?”  
“Uh, yep!”  
“Right. At least some people are reliable in this whole hootenanny. What the fuck is in Box A now?”  
Deuce checked, and as soon as he opened the lid he screamed. “BEES!”  
  
The kids had taken position in a secluded doorway and watched Deuce and Boxcars leave the van yet again. This time there was nothing stealthy about it. Droog took the opportunity to slip away as the delivery men were distracted by the sight of the two heart attack victims they had encountered earlier in the day fleeing screaming, before a cloud of angry bees.  
  
The crew regrouped in the Midnight Brew. Things had not gone, in the strictest sense, according to plan.  
“So,” Slick began, “let me get this straight. The whole point of this whole sneaky business was to sneak in and out, sneakily, and make sure no one realised we had boosted the tea.”  
“Right,” Droog sighed.  
“Right,” said Boxcars.  
Deuce moaned under his bandages. He had been stung so badly that they had decided in the end to just coat him in bandages and hope for the best.  
“Now, correct me if I'm wrong over here,” Slick continued, “but the business with the different boxes was to hide our tracks. Did I or did I not specifically say, and I really want to be clear here, that youse guys were not supposed to be seen stealin' the tea?”  
“Uh, yeah,”  
“Sorry boss,”  
Another moan.  
“This is why it comes to my attention that the sight of Deuce screaming his way down Main street surrounded by a cloud of bees, waving an enormous Tee, might not have been quite in the spirit of what I was tryin' to build, with this plan.”  
They really didn't have an answer for that.  
“I guess, I only have one question remain' right now,” Slick mused.  
“What's that boss?” Boxcars asked hopefully.  
“Where the hell is my bomb?”  
  
The answer to that question would come later. After making their round of deliveries, including a mysteriously empty box to the English Tea Shop, the final delivery of the day was a heavy box full of vintage pornography to a warehouse, where it would be stored with similarly smutty materials ready for distribution at the end of the month. The delivery men were too busy musing on the bizarre events of the day to notice that their load was ticking. When the explosion did finally come, there were no injuries. The blast was absorbed by the tons upon tons of prime smut filling the warehouse, however as an unfortunate side-effect it did rain a fine, ashy confetti made up largely of pornographic imagery. The police suggested on the news that perhaps some civic-minded but extreme act of anti-pornographic vigilantism was responsible, and that night as Ms Paint swept yet another pile of tattered erotica from her doorstep where it had been falling like rain all day, she wondered what this neighbourhood was coming to. Honestly.


End file.
